Paper Flowers
by Dea Liberty
Summary: Draco has a secret he keeps safe in his room. 'The ink is old and faded, the messages worn and washed out, discoloured and dull.' Oneshot. HD slash.


**Title:** Paper Flowers  
**Pairing:** Harry/Draco  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, characters, names and indicia are trademarks and copyright to Warner Brothers and JK Rowling.  
**Feedback:** Everything, including constructive criticism, is very much appreciated.  
**Challenge:** **hpliterotica**'s Unrequited Love Challenge

It's something that's hidden away from the world (locked in his bedroom, where he'd once kept expensive clothes: in his own cupboard - his father would never think to look there); a memorial, a tribute to something (someone) that soon, the world will cease to remember: children will cease to learn his name, and even then, only to curse.

It's almost like a small field (except it's inside, locked - always locked) and for his eyes only, a little sanctuary, the only remaining monument of an era long past: an era that would go down in history as one of repression and injustice.

It's the winners of the war who write the history (and it's history that ultimately judges them all).

But in there (his wardrobe), the truth flutters in a non-existent, magic-created breeze; furling and unfurling, twisting and swaying (almost dancing) to a song that had ceased to play long ago.

The ink is old and faded, the messages worn and washed out, discoloured and dull. Some of them are half burnt (he'd rescued them from fires), others torn (and then mended - he'd mended them) and trampled.

They hadn't been kind to all that remained.

He sits in there sometimes (when he can get the time away) and watches the little pieces of parchment (some bigger than others, varying in size and shape and colour), watches the seemingly endless trails he's carefully constructed, the patches and sections (organised by date, by recipient, by subject matter).

In the corner are his notes from Hogwarts: Potions homework here, Divination notes that don't make sense there (he never knew he'd really predict his own death - he never guessed that), a messy Transfiguration spell scrawled somewhere else. The pages of his textbooks are there too: here's a Herbology one, a drawing of a snitch (not a very good one) inked onto the margin (waste of a textbook; he shouldn't have been defiling them). The script is leaning and looped, bored and careless and sometimes concentrating (the lines a little darker here and there).

Page after page, folded and shaped and tattered; it's all that's left, dug out from his school stuff, rescued before the others would see.

In another patch (not far away) are his notes to friends (and surrogate family): messages to Hermione and Ginny, requests for blankets and scarves and socks (it had been cold in Russia, cold and alone whilst in hiding), thank you letters for food and presents, notes written on cards for Christmas, Birthdays - even one for Valentine's day (to that girl, Luna Lovegood; he'd been furious then). The strokes here are bold, happy sometimes, nostalgic at others (later, in hiding), written to and for familiar people, parts of his life that he loved and cherished and protected.

Many (most) of these had been tarnished in some way. He'd pried some from fisted grasps of the dying (dead), others discovered whilst checking over the remains of some burnt house (annihilated, destroyed) or office building, there are even a few he'd managed to take when the messages themselves had been intercepted (he never found out what happened to the people he took them from - he didn't really care, either), hidden them away before the Dark Lord could take them from him. Carefully constructed letters, to be sure there's no misinterpretation (there hadn't needed interpretation at all), writing clearer now (neater, more grown up, more afraid but still bold).

There's a whole section for the ones he'd managed to force (tortured and tormented, threatened and humiliated) from Snape (spy for so long, betrayed them - punished at last); notes of meetings and secrets, whispered onto paper like hushed moonlight in the dark. It's a completely different tone of scrawl from the others, light-tipped, faint brush of the quill over parchment, rushed and tentative, looking much younger than it should (he'd never really felt like he'd grown up when writing to Snape - still the same scrawl as his Potion assignments).

Precious memorials, last remnants of someone that had never ceased to captivate him - even now: the memories and flickering inky finger prints (learning to use a quill) and prints (writing getting better, more profound, more dark - but never really grew up) that never stopped evoking curiosity.

Even now.

Each note, each letter, each simple scribble of quill on parchment spoke thousands for someone who'd never speak again; told tales no one would ever hear. The field (precious and secret and preserved) told a story of a boy, born into something he never asked for, lived as someone he never wanted to be and ended up dying in the end (everyone ended up dying in the end) for a cause he never fully understood.

It's the only thing left, the only way the truth will ever be told, whispered under the door of the sanctuary, kept alive by a brush of fingers and a small movement of bow-shaped lips that had never done anything but insult (words recited as carefully as prayer).

There's a single flower in the middle of the field, enshrined in light and glass and something else entirely (just like their relationship-that-never-was), something almost soft and sweet and frighteningly beautiful, movements a small flutter-stutter of tiny little wings (like butterflies) - so well preserved, well cared for (looked after, looked at).

It stands alone in the middle, all alone; the others burnt and torn and never recovered (they hadn't been kind words; they hadn't meant anything except malice): the only note that really meant anything to him, rather than bits and pieces (of malevolence, hatred), leftovers of a life he never shared (he only watched it all from afar).

The writing on this is tentative, careful (like he hadn't known what to say, how to word it). It had been the answer to a question (a simple question that should have had a simple answer - he'd never understood the hesitance). It had been preserved to every detail, exactly as it had looked to him that day, exactly as it'd been left by the other man.

It had been his last piece of writing; his last contribution to Draco's world.

_"I'm so sorry, more than sorry. I'm sorry. And goodbye."_

Bloodstained, tearstained and stained with unrivalled bitterness, it had really been Harry's goodbye.


End file.
